Baby It's Cold
by bohemianyc
Summary: A little Brittana love for the holidays- Santana spending Christmas Eve with the Pierce family.
1. Chapter 1

"Santana?"

I watched Brittany climb the stairs to her room before turning back to her mother, who was stirring heavy, rich mushroom soup on the stove. "Hm?"

"Does Brittany still believe in Santa?"

"What?"

"I mean, we don't think she does, but every once in a while she'll say something and we can't tell if she's being serious or not."

"I…" I trailed off. She was right. "I'm not sure."

"Annabelle's getting too old for the charade, but I don't want to completely ruin Brittany's Christmas if she's still innocent about it all."

I smirked. I didn't think "innocent" and "Brittany" really went together. Sure, she could be naïve at times, but that girl was no innocent. "Um, Betty, I know it's not usually a problem, but I just wanted to check… it's cool if I spend tonight with you guys, right?"

She smiled. "Of course. We love having you here on Christmas Eve." She looked like she had more to say, but she didn't open her mouth again.

Brittany bounded back down the stairs and grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. "Hi!"

I smiled. "Hi, _mi estrellita_," I said softly, loving that her mom only understood the most basic Sesame-Street Spanish.

"Let's go sit by the tree," Brittany said. "It's so pretty."

"Don't forget your eggnog," Brittany's mother pulled a carton out of the fridge. "Santana, can you watch the soup for a minute? I have to run to the bathroom."

I took the spoon. Brittany wrinkled her nose at the eggnog but grabbed two glass mugs out of the cabinet. They had tiny Christmas trees and presents on them, most of the color gone from multiple dishwasher cycles. I laughed. "Britt, you don't have to drink it if you hate it."

"It's tradition," she said.

"We could…" I started, but she was already bent over by the liquor cabinet. "Great minds," I grinned when she pulled out the Bacardi.

"I only have one mind, San," she said as she poured a hefty amount into each glass and topped it off with a disproportionate amount of eggnog.

"It's a saying, B. 'Great minds think alike.' Like, I was thinking the same thing."

"Why not just say so."

I shook my head. "Cheers," I lifted my glass and we each downed a bit. I coughed a little. "Shit, Captain Morgan. You put enough in there?"

"You want more?"

"No. Well, yes—but no. Your mom will definitely notice."

When Mrs. P took over the soup again, Britt pulled me to the living room with our glasses. The warm lights of the Christmas tree glowed beautifully on her face. She rested her head on my shoulder and sipped her drink. I kissed the top of her head and looked out the window into the dark back yard. "You think it's snowing tonight?" I asked.

"Can't tell," she said. "San."

"Yeah?"

"Sing me a song."

I chuckled. "No way."

"Sing me a Christmas song."

"I'm not going to sing you a song, B. That's gay."

She snorted. "Yeah, okay."

Annabelle burst in the front door, followed closely by Mr. Pierce carrying his daughter's figure skates. She twirled around the island in the kitchen. "That smells gross," she said of her mother's soup.

"You love it," Mrs. Pierce said. "You say that every year, but you love it."

"Why aren't you playing Christmas music?" Mr. Pierce said, immediately turning on the stereo. His Christmas mixes, which were the only things allowed to occupy the CD player from Black Friday through December 25th, were pretty decent for the most part. I grinned at the opening bars of my favorite song from _Elf_. I glanced at Brittany, who was smiling knowingly at me.

"No."

"I know you're going to."

"Nope."

"You can't resist Zooey Deschanel," Britt giggled over the top of her glass.

I narrowed my eyes playfully at her. "Fine. But only because it's Christmas Eve," I mumbled. "The neighbors might think—"

"Baby, it's bad out there," B sang.

"Say, what's in this drink?"

"No cabs to be had out there."

"I wish I knew how—"

"Your eyes are like starlight."

"—to break the spell."

"I'll take your hat, your hair looks swell."

"I ought to say no, no, no, sir."

"Mind if I move closer?"

"At least I'm gonna say that I tried."

"What's the sense in hurting my pride?"

"I really can't stay."

"Baby don't hold out."

"Ahh, but it's cold outside," we finished together, laughing and clinking our mugs before downing a mouthful each.

Annabelle poked her head over the back of the couch between us. "You guys are so…" I watched all the words flying behind her eyes as they darted between Britt's face and mine. She finally settled on, "Weird." She sniffed and pulled a face. "What are you drinking? Your breath smells funny."

"Eggnog," we both said, maybe a little too quickly. Damnit. How old were we?

Mrs. Pierce eyed us suspiciously and I saw her glance at the liquor cabinet. I bit my lip and focused intently on an ornament that was a cartoonish German Shepherd puppy poking his head out of an envelope addressed to Santa.

Santa.

"Hey B," I mumbled, blinking twice to force the alcohol out of the corners of my vision.

"Mm?"

"You wanna stay up tonight?"

"We can't tonight, S. Santa won't come."

Annabelle climbed up on a stool in the kitchen. "When's Gramma coming?" she whined. "She brings the good food."

"Marshmallow salad?" her mother asked skeptically.

"And my favorite bread and pickles."

The Pierces had the most unconventional, mismatched Christmas Eve dinner every year. Mushroom soup, oatmeal bread, cranberry-coconut-and-marshmallow salad, homemade pickles from Gramma D's neighbor, and petit fours at the end of the night (when we were all too stuffed to move). The petit fours would be fine if there was one box… but Gramma D seemed to think we'd each want to open a box, so we always ended up with five boxes of the tiny desserts that sat in the freezer until we found them again in August and finally threw them out because the thought of eating them any night aside from Christmas Eve was repulsive.

"Maybe you'll get a visit from Santana Claus tonight," I whispered into B's hair.

She shivered, but looked up at me frantically. "We can't tonight or he might not come," she said with deadly serious eyes.

Shit.

"B… come on…."

"Just one night, San. Please. It's important."

I finished my drink. "I'll be right back," I said, trying to stand as steadily as I could. I hadn't eaten anything yet and that was a _lot_ of rum. "Oh shit," I mumbled.

"You okay?" she looked up at me from the couch.

"Mhm."

"Lightweight," she smirked.

"Shut it." I composed myself and walked into the kitchen in a very steady manner, considering.

"What is wrong with you?" Annabelle eyed me like a crazy person.

"What's wrong with _you_?" I shot back.

Mrs. Pierce shook her head, slightly disapproving, but I think she'd resigned herself to our behavior a year ago. As long as we only did it on occasion (and for all she knew, we did).

"She still believes," I said quietly.

Brittany's mom nodded. "Will you help?"

"I'll keep her occupied upstairs." Immediately my face started to burn—a combination of the alcohol and the way Mrs. P was looking at me. I thought about trying to fix it, but knew I'd only make it worse. Better to feign innocence.

The doorbell rang and Annabelle jumped up to open it for her grandma. Brittany rolled off the couch to give her an overly happy (even for Britt) hug. Gramma D took one look at the both of us and dumped her food on the counter. "Annabelle, go get the presents out of my car. It's freezing and I'm not going back out there. Elizabeth, these two are fuckfaced. Don't you keep a lock on your liquor cabinet?"

We giggled, and Betty glanced at the ceiling and muttered something. Gramma D didn't notice.

Britt wrapped her arms around my waist and kissed my shoulder. I smiled smugly. She always was a loving drunk.

"So." Gramma D eased herself into one of the stools at the counter. "What have you two lesbians been up to."

I tensed, but B gripped me tighter. "She's old. Ever since the stroke she doesn't have a filter anymore," she said. "San's my best friend, Gramma," she corrected. "You know that."

It was supposed to relax me, but for some reason it made me feel even worse. I shrugged out of Brittany's arms and stalked down the hallway.

"Really, Mom?" I heard Mrs. P say. "Of all nights, you have to do this tonight?"

"What's the big deal?"

I leaned my forehead against the glass door at the end of the dark hallway and turned on the spotlight, watching light flurries outside. A hand on my arm—B's. I tried to pull away but she tightened her grasp.

"Please don't do this tonight," she said.

"I didn't do anything,"

"You know what I mean."

"It was your gramma, B. Not me. Why does she have to say shit like that, anyway? I'm not gay," I said.

"I know," she said simply, taking my face in her hands and pulling me in for a lingering kiss. "I know you're not."


	2. Chapter 2

Brittany grabbed the Santa hat that rested crookedly on the frame of her school picture on the mantle and fit it snugly on my head. I leaned my head back against the couch cushions to wrinkle my nose at her; she grinned and jumped over the back of the couch to sit next to me. "You make a cute Santana Claus."

"Mhm, that's right," I said. She squeezed my knee affectionately and I jumped about a foot. "B!"

"Sorry," she giggled. "Forgot you were ticklish."

"No you didn't."

She smirked.

"Do you girls want a fire?" Mr. P asked, bending to grab a log from the pile by the fireplace. Brittany looked horrified.

"No!" I said quickly. "We can't."

He looked at me quizzically.

"You can't have a fire going when Santa comes down the chimney," I explained.

Annabelle, her father, and Gramma D all looked at me like they were suddenly questioning everything they knew about me. I felt my cheeks warm and chanced a glance at Britt, who was eyeing her father suspiciously.

"The fire will be out by the time Santa comes," he said hesitantly, almost delicately, still eyeing me strangely.

"What about the hot coals? He'd burn his feet," Brittany said.

"For God's sake, Roger, if you're cold just get a blanket," Mrs. Pierce said.

"Really?" He murmured to his wife. She just glared. Of all the nights to give away the Santa charade, tonight was the absolute worst. Better to wait til February. Or, like, July.

"Can we watch Love Actually tonight?" Brittany asked.

"Not down here. You girls can watch it upstairs."

"I want to see it," Annabelle whined.

"When you're seventeen," Mrs. P said.

"But they're not seventeen. That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, kiddo," I said.

"Are you going to have them open presents or not?" Gramma D, in a rocking chair by the picture window, pushed herself back and forth pretty aggressively for an eighty-year-old. "I'm falling asleep over here."

"Why do old people get tired so fast?" Brittany asked.

"Nothing to do with my age, Bumblebee. Just that huge bowl of fat your mother served earlier for dinner. Wonder I haven't had a heart attack already. If we don't change our Christmas Eve menu pretty soon, you all are going to be spending the night with me in the hospital instead of waiting for Santa Claus." She scoffed a little.

"Annabelle, can you go grab the presents?" Mrs, P said. "They're on my bed."

"Bet it's pajamas," I smirked.

"Santana, don't ruin it."

"Mom, you give us the same thing every year," Brittany said.

"No, this year I got you books."

"You say that every year, too."

"Well, this year it's true."

Annabelle dropped a package on Britt's lap and tore her own open. Brittany opened hers too, rather unenthusiastically. It was hard to get excited for the one present you got to open on Christmas Eve when you knew it was going to be a set of pajamas you'd never be caught dead in.

"I kept the receipt," Mrs. P said, watching Brittany, "in case you want to return them. I didn't know what you wanted."

"No, Mom, I love them. Thank you." She smiled, running her fingers over the maroon flower pattern on a cream background. "They're really… soft."

As Annabelle pulled her pajamas out and thanked her mother genuinely (when you're eleven, it's easier to appreciate flannel), I leaned over and whispered in Brittany's ear, "I got you pajamas, too."

Her eyes sparkled. "I hope they're better than these."

"Mm, so much. You'll love them."

"Will you love them more?"

I grinned.

"We're really pretending not to see Ellen and Portia on the couch right now? Really?" Gramma D looked around at everyone in disbelief.

I bristled and pulled quickly away from Brittany. "Is your Gramma related to Coach Sylvester?" I said grumpily.

Brittany's eyes widened. "I hope not…"

"Mom."

"What?"

Mrs. P shook her head incredulously, muttering something about the stroke. "Can you just pretend you have a filter for two days?"

"Don't talk to me like that," Gramma said. "And why does everyone keep blaming it on the stroke? I never had a filter. Look, they want to go through an L Word phase? Who cares. But I'm not going to pretend it's not happening. You do that shit for attention, right?"

"Oh my God." Mrs. Pierce pinched the bridge of her nose.

"What's an L Word phase?" Annabelle asked, frowning at us.

I crossed my arms defensively and glared at Gramma D.

"Jesus, Santana," the old woman said, glancing at my chest. "Your tits got huge."

"_Mom!_"

"I got a boob job," I spat. "Now who's going through an L-Word phase? Quit staring at my chest, old woman."

Mr. P looked hugely uncomfortable. From the edge of my vision, I could see Brittany watching me, but I refused to drop Gramma D's stare. I knew B wanted to try to calm me down, but she knew better.

"Don't flatter yourself, Rosie," Gramma D said. "Boobs aren't really my thing."

After several tense minutes, I stood abruptly. "Thanks for dinner, Betty. Merry Christmas, everyone." Pulling my arms slightly closer around my body, stalked to the front door, grabbed my coat and stepped out into the cold. I wanted there to be wind stinging my face and a blizzard so heavy I couldn't see the houses across the street, but there were only sporadic tiny flakes drifting perfectly from the black sky above.


	3. Chapter 3

Fucking snowflakes. Where was my goddamn blizzard? I kicked the built-up snow next to the sidewalk angrily and stumbled a little when it went up in a puff and drifted lazily across the white lawn of a house a couple blocks down from the Pierces'. "God fucking damnit!" I shouted, kicking the snow again and again until it sifted into my boot, furious that there wasn't anything solid to connect with. There was no satisfaction in kicking powder. "God—_ugh!_" I kicked so hard I landed on my ass in the snow. I wanted to scream, and I wanted to cry, and I wanted to throw something through the windshield of a car. But instead I just sat there as my ass went numb and watched the snowflakes land on my coat.

"Santana?"

Oh Jesus.

"If this is supposed to be a Christmas present, I'm not complaining, but you know I'm Jewish, right?"

"Of all the houses." I glared at Puck, who was hugging himself against the cold, standing a couple feet away in stocking feet.

"The fuck are you doing in my yard?"

"Making you a daisy chain."

"Kinda late in the season for that."

A snowflake landed on my nose and I wiped it off.

"Nice hat."

I grabbed the fuzzy red hat off my head and threw it on the sidewalk.

After an uncomfortable silence, Puck shifted. "I thought you stayed with Britt on Christmas Eve," he said.

"Her gramma's a fuckin' whack job."

Puck laughed. "My feet are soaked. You wanna come inside? Or you gonna go wreck someone else's lawn?"

I looked up at him. It would be so easy, to follow him in. It was always easy with Puck. It meant no questions, no suggestions, no accusations. It meant normal. Simple. Every morning after meant my chest felt like a gaping cavity, whether I stayed the whole night or not, but apart from that… easy.

"Can you please hurry up? I'm freezing my balls off."

I snorted. "You always did know the right things to say, Puckerman," I said, following him inside.

"You know you only get to come in if I'm gonna get laid, right?"

"At least you're honest."

"I'm serious. You have that I-want-to-talk-about-some-serious-shit look, and I am not the person for those conversations. Three talks I do well— Super Marios talk, football talk, and dirty talk."

"You suck at dirty talk."

"Hey. You love it. But point is—serious-shit talk? Not my thing. Call one of your girlfriends for that."

"I didn't end up on your lawn to talk, Puck. Does that even sound like something I'd do?"

He eyed me suspiciously. "So… wanna make out?"

"No."

He groaned and flopped on the couch. "Well I don't know what else we're gonna do."

"How about we play the quiet game. For, like, five minutes. That would be great."

He rolled his eyes. I picked at the couch cushions as I watched the flames die in the fireplace. Obviously Puck was not worried about Santa. The corner of my mouth tugged up in a tiny smile before I forced it away.

"Saw that."

"Maybe you forgot how the quiet game works."

More silence. A glowing ember drifted upward but disappeared before it went out of sight.

"We couldn't have a fire at Britt's house tonight," I said. "She still believes in Santa."

"Not surprised."

"I was going to help. With the charade."

"Dress up as Santa?"

I pictured the sexy Santa lingerie I brought out every year at Christmas. "Kind of," I said. "Mostly just keep B upstairs while her parents set up everything downstairs."

"Mhm," he smirked and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

"Okay, that—what the fuck. Right there. Why does everyone always do that."

"Do what?"

"It's like, anytime I say anything about B, someone turns it sexual."

"That's because it usually is."

"It's not! Jesus Christ."

"Okay, fine. So… what happened? I'm not making the leap from Brittany's-in-North-Pole-La-La-Land to Santana's-bitching-at-me-on-my-front-lawn."

"Her gramma's just whacked, okay?"

"You gotta give me a little more to go on."

"She has no filter."

"That's awesome."

"Wrong."

"I wish my Nana Connie didn't have a filter. She'd be way more fun."

"It's not as fun as it sounds."

"What did she say?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"Okay, Matthew McConaughey."

"What?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about. Brittany made us watch _How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days_ before…"

"I only remember the Patron and the hot tub."

"Uh huh." I leaned against the arm of the couch, and he sat up straighter. Without looking at him, I said quietly, "Her gramma just doesn't get that we're best friends."

"With benefits."

"See? You don't get it either. Nobody gets it. I'm sick of everyone and their stupid assumptions."

I felt his eyes on me as we sat in silence. I stared at his fireplace; a few fading embers tumbled off one of the logs and rolled into the ashes, sending up a few tiny sparks. I bit my lip and my hand went instinctively to check my phone before I remembered I'd left it on the kitchen counter at Brittany's.

"Now do we get to make out?" Puck said.

"I'm not making out with you tonight."

"Then this is a waste of my time. I pretend to listen to your feelings and care about all the shit that's going on in your head, and listen to you bitch about Brittany's crazy grandma—who doesn't sound that crazy, by the way—and I don't even get laid after all that?"

"Fuck you."

"I wish. So far it doesn't look like we're going anywhere near that tonight."

"You're such an asshole."

"You're so hot when you're pissed." He tried to reach for me but I shoved his hand away and stood up, stumbling a little. "Are you drunk?"

"No. I lost my balance. Jesus, I'm not a fucking porcelain doll, would you leave me alone?"

"I didn't—"

"And I'm not just an easy lay whenever you're horny. I didn't come over here to screw you."

"You've never come for anything else."

"I hate you!"

"I don't think you do. Also, maybe you could keep it down, or you'll wake my mom."

"I'm out of here." I flung open the door to more lazy flurries. "I just want a goddamn fucking white-out blizzard!" I sobbed, slamming an open hand against the door jamb.

"Oh shit. Oh no." Puck looked terrified. "Don't… I don't know what to do when you start crying."

I pulled back and socked him hard in the bicep.

"Shit! Cunt! That fuckin' hurt!" He rubbed his arm. "Thank God."

"I swear to God if you tell anyone about this, I will force an irreversible, back-alley vasectomy on you."

"You're gonna have to do better than that, Lopez. Already got one of those over the summer."

"Back-alley?"

"No, legit."

"That's a bunch of bullshit to make you seem responsible. You can fool Jewfro with that, but I know better."

"You know," he said after a moment, "Britt won't fall asleep tonight if she's worried about you. And if she doesn't sleep it'll ruin the Santa thing, and her Christmas will be wrecked. All because of you."

"You're such an asshole."

"You're a selfish bitch."

"I seriously want to punch you in every single tooth right now."

"Calm down, crazy. You're like the size of a chipmunk."

"So?"

He smirked, knowing he wasn't really in danger. "You want help or anything? With the Santa thing?"

"No, but…" I stared at him hard, a mixture of cold air behind me and heat coming through the open front door causing my cheeks to flush. He raised an eyebrow. I hesitated before leaning up and kissing him.

He grinned against my lips. "Sure you don't wanna make out?"

I smiled and pushed him back. "Uh-uh. That was…"

"I know what it was," he said. "Two things you can't do, Lopez: sorry's and thank you's. I'm guessing that was one of them."

"Screw you," I said affectionately.

He just laughed. "You're such a mess."

I picked up the snowy Santa hat I'd left on the sidewalk and looked back up the street.


	4. Chapter 4

I'd walked back up the street, climbed the lattice on the side of the house—Brittany hated when I did that in the winter; one year I'd slipped on the ice and sprained my wrist—crawled in her window, and was now standing at the foot of her bed in my jacket and the Santa Claus hat I'd stupidly put back on my head. Now it was dripping melted snow down my neck, but I was too afraid to move and take it off.

"Remember when you wouldn't sing a duet with me?"

"Yeah."

"And when we went on a double-date with Puck and Artie and you were all over him the whole time?"

"He was my date, Britt—"

"And all the Saturday nights you were supposed to spend the night but you left every time someone booty-texted you?"

I closed my eyes. "Yeah."

"This was worse than all of those."

"Brittany, I didn't even do anything. Your gramma was being a bitch."

"It's Christmas, Santana."

Oh, full names. We both just went there. When your best friend uses your full name, you know you're in shit. Nicknames are proof of good standing.

"You always spend Christmas Eve here, and Gramma D's always here, too. What's different about this year?"

"I'm sorry, did you hear the verbal abuse that woman was spewing? And don't give me shit about some stroke—the last thing that batshit crazy needs is people defending her."

"She's my gramma, S. Don't say that."

"I'm sorry. But it's true."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Why do you think?"

"How am I supposed to know if you don't tell me?"

"You're just supposed to know, B, Jesus. You're supposed to know me." I turned around to face the window, arms folded across my chest. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and closed my eyes tightly, refusing to watch my breath cloud the windowpane.

"I'm not a mind reader. You have to talk to me."

There was a long silence. I reached up and slowly pulled off the Santa hat so I could have something to do with my hands. Also so the goddamn freezing cold water would stop dripping down my back.

"It's not because of my gramma, is it," she said.

"Yes it is," I whispered.

"It's 'cause of what she said. The gay thing."

My shoulders tensed. Finally, I turned to look at her. She hadn't moved from her cross-legged position on the bed. "I'm not—"

"Yeah, I know," she said shortly, frowning a little.

"It's just that—"

"I know, San."

"Would you stop? A minute ago you're yelling at me 'cause I won't talk to you—"

"I wasn't yelling."

"—and now you won't shut up and let me talk? Goddamnit, Britt!" I sat down on the end of the bed, facing the wall, and rubbed my thumbs over the fuzzy red fabric in my hands. I could see Brittany watching me patiently out of the corner of my eye. I sighed and threw my head back to look at the ceiling. "Can we talk about this later? It's a shitty Christmas Eve talk. And if we don't fall asleep soon Santa won't come."

I finally looked at her, expecting a horrified expression. But her eyes… I've never seen her so sad. Not even when we accidentally stumbled upon a nest of large eggs that had been crushed by a fallen tree (pretty sure they were goose eggs, but she kept crying about how the little duckies would never grow up to swim in the stream or see the fluffy clouds and shit like that). This… this was a deeper sadness. No tears. Like it was coming straight from her heart. My chest ached and I looked away.

"Can you go home now."

If my chest felt like it was aching before, now it felt like it had just caved in. Collapsed. Broke. This was the worst Christmas ever. "Are you serious?"

She nodded and picked at her sock, refusing to look at me.

"Why?"

"I don't want you to sleep here tonight."

"Britt, we do this every year. Please." Shit. I wished I could suck that needy word right back in. But maybe I was a little desperate…. Truth was my parents never got home until noon on Christmas, and while I loved celebrating it with them, waking up on Christmas morning to an empty house and an unlit tree with only the presents I'd put beneath it was fucking depressing. Brittany knew that. "I guess…. We can… we can talk for a little if you want."

A tiny gust of wind brought a momentary flurry of snowflakes against the window.

"Why'd you run out earlier?" she asked.

"Why didn't you follow me?"

"Why do you need me to follow you?"

I closed my eyes. So far this was not productive. "I don't."

"Really. So if I stopped following you around you'd be totally fine."

I scoffed and started to roll my eyes before I caught a glimpse of her dead-serious expression. The exhale died on my lips. "No."

She smiled softly. "It's okay to be scared."

"Please. I'm not scared."

"I know you're brave, baby. But it's okay to be scared."

I melted a little at the affection and bit my lip. She moved to sit next to me and brushed a stray lock from my temple, running her fingers gently through my hair. "I just hate… I hate feeling like this," I said.

"Like what?"

"Like… weak. I'm not good at… I'm not good at being the one in trouble."

"You're always in trouble."

"No, I mean real trouble. Well, maybe not trouble, but… you know?"

"Tell me."

"It's just… what if it's not different."

"What do you mean?"

"Every time—it's always the same. Everybody leaves."

"Except me."

"How do I know? How do you know you won't want to leave?"

"Why are you worried about that?"

"How can I not be worried about that."

"If I've known you for twelve years and I haven't left yet?"

"Someday you'll learn something you don't like about me, and then you'll leave."

Brittany smiled. "There are things I don't like about you, but it doesn't mean I'm going anywhere."

I felt a familiar panic rise. "Like what? You never told me."

"Like… whenever we have a fight, you pick your nails, and you don't even know you're doing it, and then you file them extra hard at school the next day and I have to think about the fight all over again. Whenever you ask me how you look, no matter what I say, you always check the mirror again before we leave. Things like that."

"I'll stop."

"No, I don't want you to. Otherwise you won't be you, and I like you."

"You like me."

"Well." She said, smiling and tilting her head to the side, as if saying I should know better.

I swallowed hard. "What if I'm not good enough."

"You are," she said. "I don't know what more you want."

"I just want… I just…" I rolled my eyes a little. "It's stupid, okay? But, like… I'd change everything, you know?"

"Why?"

"Not like—not…" The word "us" caught in my throat. "Not what…" Brittany watched me patiently as I struggled for less-loaded phrases. "I'd change—I mean, if that's what…" I laughed humorlessly and wiped my nose with the back of my hand. "I'm such a disaster, Britt. Why do you even put up with me."

"You're avoiding the question."

Fuck it. "Look. I…" I couldn't bring myself to look at her. I stared hard at a spot on the carpet where she'd spilled hot chocolate when we were little and had just come back from hockey (our ice careers only lasted one practice). When I spoke again, my voice was so soft I wasn't sure she'd hear. I wasn't sure I wanted her to hear. "I need you. But I don't know if you…"

"If I what?"

"I don't think you need me like I need you."

"Honey," she breathed and untangled her fingers from my hair to pull me close to her. I melted into her, inhaling the raspberry vanilla scent she always wore in the winter. "You know I do."

"I'm not worth it."

"Why would you say that?"

"It's true. I'm a mess. How could you possibly—why would you even want this? Forget about needing it."

"Stop it," she said, cupping my face and forcing me to look her in the eye. "You are the most awesomest person I know."

I shook my head, but that got a little smile out of me. "Why?"

"Because. Sometimes you give me piggy-back rides even though I'm bigger than you. And you always want to be the big spoon, and I know you said it's because you're a badass and badasses are never the little spoon, but I think it's really because you don't want anything to be able to sneak up behind me when we're sleeping. And you have the most amazing voice. And you stir my mom's mushroom soup when she leaves the room without even rolling your eyes."

I fell into her again, clutching the front of her shirt desperately and taking a shaky breath.

"That was supposed to make you feel better—why are you still crying?"

"I'm not," I whispered, not trusting my voice to speak any louder.

She smiled against the top of my head.

I exhaled just as unsteadily and gripped her tighter. "I love you."


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: I know it's way past Christmas, but I'm revisiting the story anyway... here's a fluffy filler chapter for you.**

* * *

I traced my fingers gently over her cheek, down her jawbone, and off her chin. Her eyelids fluttered a little, but her breathing was still steady. Sleep was not flattering on a lot of people – not that I typically stuck around long enough to see that, but I'd seen it in other contexts. Puck usually slept with one of his arms up and reeked of sweaty boy. Finnocene snored (I don't know why you'd expect anything less). Sam slept with his huge-ass mouth gaping open on the bus (turns out there's not a lot you _can't_ put in his mouth when he's passed out). But Brittany… fuck, she was just gorgeous all the time. Her hair curling softly next to her cheek, her freckles—she was self conscious about them, but I loved them all—her rhythmic breathing, the way she unconsciously pulled her bottom lip momentarily between her teeth and her lips curled in a tiny smile, her deep baby blues…

"You should be sleeping," I murmured when I realized she was watching me back.

"How can I sleep when you're staring at my lips like that?"

I smiled. "You said so yourself: we can't tonight or Santa won't come."

"Santa won't come if you're still awake, either, San."

I cupped her face and brushed my thumb over her cheekbone. "Okay."

"Go to sleep, honey," she said. "Please?"

"As long as you make it up to me tomorrow night."

"Mhm. I still want a visit from Santana Claus, too."

"How'd I get so goddamn lucky with you?" I said quietly.

"No one at school would ever believe you're such a sap." She smiled sleepily and closed her eyes again.

* * *

"San… San… S."

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and buried my face in the pillow. "So early," I grumbled unintelligibly. I could barely even understand myself.

"It's Christmas!" Brittany whispered excitedly.

I smiled a little. How fucking adorable was this girl. I reached my hand out expectantly.

"Uh-uh, you have to roll over first."

"No."

"If you don't you can't have any."

I didn't move for a good sixty seconds. Finally, I sighed and rolled over. "Now?"

"Sit up."

I made it halfway up before I collapsed against the pillows.

She giggled. "Good enough." She handed me the peppermint mocha she'd made. It started as a candy-cane-in-hot-chocolate tradition, but two years ago I got to a point where I couldn't function at 5am if I didn't have a caffeine IV. There are certain things a body wasn't made to do naturally, and one of those things was be awake two hours before the sun. Even on Christmas morning.

I coughed a little at the first sip. "You put the Coffeemate in first?"

"How'd you know?"

"I know you." I smiled and took another cautious sip. I'm sure there was coffee in there somewhere. "How's the tree look?" I asked.

Her eyes sparkled. "Amazing. Come see?"

I gave her a yeah-right glance. "Maybe in an hour."

"You're such an old lady on Christmas, it's no fun."

"Watch it, or this old lady won't give you your present tonight."

She smirked and bounced a little in her desk chair, watching me sip my coffee. "You're drinking slow on purpose."

"I'm drinking slow because it's so sweet it's making my teeth hurt."

"But coffee's so gross if you don't put anything sweet in it. It makes my head hurt."

"Sit with me," I rested the mug on my chest and stared at her.

She shook her head, grinning. "Come downstairs! Sit with me on the couch. No one else is up yet. The tree is so pretty, don't you want to see it?"

I sunk down in the bed and pulled the comforter up a little more.

"You can bring the blanket with you," she said.

"It's not the blanket I'm concerned about. I can't even get out of bed right now."

She raised her eyebrows.

"If you're in such a rush, go downstairs and I'll be down in a minute."

"You're just going to fall asleep again."

"I promise I'll be down in ten minutes."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she sing-songed and hopped off the chair and out the door.

I couldn't help but smile after her. But as I nursed my coffee, my stomach twisted nervously. Gramma D. I never knew _what_ she was going to say, but I knew what it would be about, and that was the worst part. Like watching a scary movie—you know something's gonna happen and freak you the fuck out, but you're never sure exactly how it's gonna work each time. You just have this constant feeling of impending doom.

What a shitty way to start Christmas.

I'd meant for us to make some sort of progress last night, me and B, but we hadn't actually made any. I'd just made an ass of myself and we weren't really any better off than we had been twelve hours ago. I didn't want to get into another shouting match with the old woman and run out again, but I couldn't make any promises. I don't promise shit like that.

Part of me was just pissed off because she was making me this tense and… well, not _scared_, obviously, but… you know.

I don't get scared. Not of real things, anyway, so Jason Voorhees totally doesn't count. But having Gramma D in the house was a little like living with Sue Sylvester, so on the off-chance someone did get a little scared, it would be totally understandable.

5:12 blinked digitally at me from B's nightstand. "Jesus." I groaned and rolled off the side of the bed, dragging the comforter with me and planning to directly inject coffee into my veins when I got downstairs. No more of this Coffeemate crap, even if it was tradition. Brittany came up behind me, just as I was contemplating drinking out of the coffeepot instead of my mug, and wrapped her arms around my waist. "Look," she said, leaning her head on my shoulder, eyes trained on the living room. I stared at the top of her head for a minute, kissed her hair gently, and looked up at the tree.

It had been beautiful last night, but this morning it was covered in tinsel and candy canes and tiny chocolate animals. The colored lights played beautifully on the tinsel that wafted in some mysterious wind—B's parents probably left the damper open last night in the fireplace by mistake. The number of presents under the tree had tripled, and there were a couple sooty boot prints on the stones around the fireplace. I smiled. "He came," I said softly.

She nodded. "He brought your presents, too."

"How'd he know I'd… that I'd…"

"Come back?"

"Be here, yeah."

"He knows everything."

"Right. Sees you when you're sleeping, knows when you're awake."

"That's gross," she said. "I don't want Santa to watch us have sex."

"He doesn't watch that part," I said quickly. Great. Just what I needed. Imagining a fat, old, bearded guy perving on us next time we got it on.

"I want you to stay all day," Brittany said when I'd slumped on the couch. She snuck under the comforter and laid her head against my neck.

"You say that every Christmas."

"Can you stay? My cousins and uncles and aunts and everyone are coming over for dinner."

"I'll be back later. I want to see my parents."

She looked up at me. "I don't want you to be lonely."

"I won't be lonely."

"But Christmas is about family, and the rest of your family doesn't even live here. Your parents can come too."

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Why not?"

I shrugged and closed my eyes, resting my head on the pillow behind me. "Maybe." If Gramma D started talking in front of my parents, I don't know what I'd do. They'd probably smack me if I was rude to her, but then again, they might want to have a long and uncomfortable conversation with me later if I let her talk. I wasn't a fan of lose-lose situations.

"Hey," I said after several silent minutes, not opening my eyes. "What do I look like when I'm sleeping?"

"Go to sleep and I'll tell you."

"You've never watched me sleep?"

I felt Brittany grin against my chest. "I'm not as weird as you."

"Oh, come on."

"I'm not. I don't notice that you breathe so quiet I can't hear you at all, so I never know if you're faking sleep or dead or actually sleeping—"

"Oh, great, I look dead while I'm sleeping. Nice, Britt. I always wanted to be compared to a corpse."

"Trees have nothing to do with it. You're always beautiful, San," she smiled impishly as I raised an eyebrow at her. "Is that what you wanted to hear? You're beautiful all the time, when you're asleep, when we've spent three hours at Cheerios practice, when you wake up totally hungover—"

"You are," I said.

She snorted. "Not when I'm hungover."

"Well… no," I conceded. "But comparatively, you make a hangover look really good."

"You're so sweet this morning," she said.

"It's all the Coffeemate you put in my coffee. Plus I gotta get it all out before your gramma wakes up."

Britt traced tiny circles on my abdomen under the blanket. "So you're gonna be mean to me for the rest of the day?"

"No, I'll just be me."

There was a long silence, and I was afraid I'd said something terribly wrong, but I couldn't see her face from my angle.

"I still want you to come over for dinner later," she said.

I smiled. "I'll see if my parents want to."


	6. Chapter 6

"Santana."

"What?" I stopped with the doorknob half twisted in my hand.

"Knock?" My mother said.

"Mom, it's Brittany's house. I'm not going to knock, that's weird." I rolled my eyes and continued inside. While my parents knew Brittany's, they weren't quite at the walk-into-the-house-unannounced level yet. Even when it was full of people and no one would hear the door.

Pretty sure Britt's entire extended family was crammed into their house. Suddenly this seemed like a terrible idea. I didn't like being around people I didn't know, especially when they didn't know who I was. And in a largely blonde-haired, blue-eyed family (with the occasional dark-haired kids running around from random cousins' marriages), I felt like an instant attention magnet. And not in the way I was used to.

Just as I started to squirm under an increased number of confused stares, Brittany jumped on me from between a balding uncle and his gawky fourteen-year-old who I was pretty sure I'd met once. She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and squeezed me tightly. "You're here!"

"Yep," I grinned, my arms around her waist.

"Guess what," she whispered.

"Hm?"

"You're standing under mistletoe."

"What?" I instantly panicked and looked up.

She giggled. "Gotcha."

"Funny."

My parents brushed past us as Mr. and Mrs. P greeted them and brought their casserole dish to the kitchen.

"Who's this?" The balding uncle who hadn't stopped staring since I'd walked in approached us with his kid. It looked like the kid was approaching under duress.

"This is my best friend, Santana. San, this is my Uncle Tom and my cousin Brandon."

"Best friend, eh?"

Oh, God. I hated when old people said _eh_. "Yep," I said.

"Since first grade," Brittany grinned at me and pulled me closer. I smiled a little.

"Wow. No kidding. And you're… two years older than Brandon?"

I watched the kid's face grow a little redder and he stared at the floor. Oh hell no. I could see this one coming a mile away.

"I'll get you a drink," B said softly, her mouth so close to my ear, her breath made me shiver a little.

"So, you got a boyfriend, Santana?" Tom asked.

I raised an eyebrow. "I don't really do boyfriends."

"Good for you. You're young. Well, I'm going to go get a drink. Be right back."

I rolled my eyes. Suddenly I wished Britt hadn't left. I'd trade the awkward moment with teenage Gumby and the promise of a drink for her presence and no drink at all. I craned my neck to see if I could see her in the kitchen. She was talking to an older cousin with a military crew cut at the punch bowl. He gestured with his hands, in the middle of a very animated story, and she threw her head back and laughed. I bit my lip and couldn't help but smile.

"So… um… do you…" The tall dork across from me was looking anywhere but at me. "Like…"

I rolled my eyes. "What?"

His face grew even redder. I was almost embarrassed for him.

"Do you always talk like this?"

"I—"

"I'm gonna stop you, Stretch. You're not my type. Also, you're, like, twelve."

"Fourteen."

If only he weren't related to Brittany—there were so many wonderfully vicious things running through my head.

"What, um, is your type?" he asked, barely glancing at me.

"I brought you a present," Brittany interrupted as she handed me a cup of punch, toting her fat cat over her shoulder.

"B, you're getting cat hair all over you."

"He was crying in the kitchen, I couldn't leave him all alone in there."

"There are like fifty people in the kitchen. He's not alone."

She pouted over the cat's head at me. He eyed me with flat, angry eyes set back in his squashed face. He was so fucking ugly and he shed like a mother, and he had a long history of cockblocking, but she adored him.

"Whatever." I shook my head.

"So what are we talking about?" she asked.

If her cousin turned any redder his hair was going to start changing color.

"My type," I smirked.

Britt grinned and dropped her cat. "Ooh, what did you say?"

"I didn't yet." I sipped my vodka-spiked punch as my eyes bounced between the two of them. "Tall, blonde. Toned. Gorgeous. Athletic. Flexible." Brittany bit her lip. "Just… sexy," I said.

"So, all superficial stuff then," she teased.

"Of course. I'm a very shallow girl."

She grinned. Her cousin looked like I'd successfully scarred him for life.

* * *

"Gosh, your lips look delicious," I whispered the lyric in Brittany's ear four cups of punch later. The benefit of so many people in the house was that my parents couldn't keep a close eye on how much vodka went into my drinks. "I wanna touch you so bad."

"Do it," she whispered back hotly. "Right here."

I groaned and clenched my fists.

"What if I get you under the mistletoe? For real this time," she said.

I shook my head. "Not in front of everyone."

"Who said it was in front of everyone?"

She led me down the hall, eyes sparkling, to her father's office. In an effort to brighten up the one room in the house that had avoided Christmas decorations, someone (probably Brittany) had hung mistletoe from one of the beams across the ceiling. She pulled me under it, fingertips guiding my hips, until we were pressed flush together. Some distant part of my brain wanted to appreciate every soft curve of her face, but the alcohol was too strong. I kissed her fiercely, nipping her bottom lip then soothing it with my tongue. She sucked my lip into her mouth with equal intensity, and continued to bite and suck her way down my neck. I tilted my head back and moaned, wrapping my hand around the back of her neck and pulling her closer. "Mm… Britt…"

I shivered at her tongue tracing my collarbone and pulled her back up to my face. We rested our foreheads together and I kept one hand on her cheek. "Hey," I said.

"I thought you were dying to get off," she said, a smile in her voice, as she pushed up the bottom of my shirt and barely tucked her fingers beneath the front of my pants.

I bit my lip as my abs tensed. "Mm—wait—I am, but…"

"But what?"

I held her piercing blue gaze for several moments. "I… I really, um…"

"Spit it out. You sound like my cousin."

I closed my eyes and whispered so quietly I started to wonder if I'd only thought the words. When I opened my eyes slowly again to look back at her, I knew they'd made it past my lips.

"You're drunk," she said.

I swallowed. "Yeah…"

"Come on, I think we're having dinner soon."

I grabbed her arm when she opened the door. "Wait, Brittany—I—I know I'm drunk. But… you believe me, right?"

"Sure."

That stung a little. She knew I hated the insincerity that word always carried. "You don't."

She smiled sadly. "I do believe you, honey. I just wish I didn't have to get you drunk and alone to hear you say it like that."

I stood there like an idiot, suddenly unsure of what to do with my hands, my voice, my eyes. Brittany pulled me closer and took her time smoothing my hair, brushing her thumb over my swollen lips, smiling a little as she looked at my neck. She leaned in closer and gently pressed her lips to mine in a soft, sweet kiss.

"You missed the mistletoe by about five feet."

We jumped apart so fast, I stumbled into Mr. P's desk and Britt knocked a couple books off the shelf. Her Uncle Tom stood in the doorway with raised eyebrows. I glanced between him and Brittany, then finally settled on a fierce stare that I kept trained on him, despite the fact I knew my face was on fire and my heart was hammering in my ears.

"I thought you meant you just didn't tie yourself down when you said you didn't do boyfriends. Guess Brandon was barking up the wrong tree."

I didn't trust myself to open my mouth. Instead I folded my arms across my chest defensively.

"Dinner's ready," he finally said, as though catching us had been the most normal part of his day, and walked back down the hallway.

"It's okay," Brittany said off my frozen look. "He won't say anything. He's on my dad's side of the family."

I couldn't help but laugh a little at the explanation of him not being related to Gramma D, but my stomach still churned uneasily as I followed her out of the office.


	7. Chapter 7

An older aunt fiddled out the first few notes of "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" on the piano in the living room as dinner wound down. Most everyone was onto coffee by now. Only half the family paid attention when the cousin with the crew cut—I think someone said he was in the Coast Guard or something—started singing the first verse. It was a joke, obviously, because he couldn't sing, and he grinned when the people around him started laughing. Gamely, he finished the verse, and Uncle Tom started in on the second.

"Your family's not very musical," I said.

"Hey."

"Well, except for you," I grinned.

"You should sing," she said.

"No."

"Please? It's not like you're singing to me this time. Just sing _for_ me."

"It feels kind of unfair. I mean, they can't sing for shit."

"You can sing 'Valerie' in front of hundreds of people for sectionals but you can't sing one verse of a Christmas song in front of my family?" She squeezed my knee and I jumped, hitting the table and spilling my coffee.

"Ow, shit." I pushed her hand away and caught a few drips on the edge of my cup with my finger.

"I'll sing with you?" she said.

At that moment Tom finished, and Britt started right in.

"Oh fear not, said the angel, let nothing you afright."

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't let her sing alone. I mean, she could sing fine, but dancing was obviously her strong point. And my voice was just kickass.

"This day is born a savior, of pure virgin bride

To free all those that trust in him

From Satan's power and might."

Suddenly she stopped and I found myself singing alone.

"Oh tidings of comfort and joy, oh tidings of comfort and joy…"

"Well," Britt's dad said, "thanks girls. Now no one wants to sing the last verse."

Everyone laughed, and I smiled at Brittany; she was beaming. The aunt finished out the song on the piano, but true to Mr. P's words, no one sang after us.

"I can't believe you made me do that," I said.

"Maybe if you're lucky I'll let you sing that Grinch song with me to my little cousins later. They love it."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

She gave me an I-know-better smirk. An I-know-you'll-do-anything-I-ask smirk.

* * *

"Tana, you ready?" My father touched my elbow.

"We're leaving already?"

"It's almost nine."

The crowd was definitely thinning, and Brittany's parents looked fried – the combination of hosting a thousand relatives and stuffing your face with four times the normal amount of food really took its toll. "I think I'm going to stay over here tonight," I said.

My father gave me a look. "It's Christmas."

"Yeah, I know," I said.

"You spend every other day of the year over here—I think you can survive one night without Brittany. You were even here last night. Christmas Eve."

"I'm always here on Christmas Eve."

"That's my point."

"Would you rather I sit alone at home?"

"Santana."

"Because if that's what'll make you happy, I'll do it."

"No, I didn't say that. I'm just—we'd like to spend some time with you tonight."

"Why, because it's Christmas? You have to have an excuse to want to spend time with me?"

His eyes darkened. "Stop it," he said.

And I did.

"We're leaving," he said.

"Fine." I crossed my arms. "Go ahead."

I knew this would cost me later, and my toes and fists curled at the thought. He frowned slightly and pressed his lips together, letting me know he knew what I was thinking. Then he found my mother, whispered in her ear, and I suffered two disapproving looks before they walked out the door.

"You're not going home?" Gramma D appeared out of nowhere next to me. Another thing she and Coach had in common.

"Um, I kind of wanted to spend the night here," I said. I braced myself for the gay jokes.

"And they let you stay?"

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

Gramma D pursed her lips and stared at me hard. "What kind of parents don't want to spend time with their daughter on Christmas?"

Oh fuck. That wasn't at all what I was prepared for. I was even less prepared for the sudden flood of tears it brought on. What the hell was wrong with me—crying three fucking times in twenty four hours?

"Oh shit," Gramma D said. She patted my shoulder awkwardly as I just stood there by the front door, rapidly turning into a huge mess. Thank God most of the relatives were gone. "I, uh… don't have a filter?"

I laughed a little through my tears, choked on the air and ended up in a teary coughing fit.

"Santana, what's wrong?" Mrs. P wrapped me in a huge hug and I buried my face in her sweater. "Mom, what did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything!"

I shook my head but couldn't find the words yet.

"Sh, shh, sweetie. It's okay." She stroked my hair soothingly. "Shh."

"What happened?"

I pulled my face away from Mrs. P to look at Brittany.

"Gramma, what did you do?" she said angrily.

"Why does everyone think it was me!" The old lady threw her hands up and shuffled away.

"It wasn't – she didn't –" I hiccupped and Mrs. P wrapped her arms around me more tightly, which was supposed to calm me down but just brought on a fresh wave of sadness. "My parents…" I looked at Britt, feeling desperate and miserable.

She pulled me away from her mother and I rested my forehead on her neck. She kissed my temple and my cheek, rubbed small circles on my back, whispered soothingly in my ear. "Hey," she said. "Hey."

Not "It's okay" or "Everything will be fine." Just "Hey." And that felt so, so much better than anything else that had been said. And I cried like a fucking baby in their foyer.

She walked me to the kitchen so we were a little less awkwardly in the way of people trying to leave.

"Shit!" I furiously rubbed my cheeks, trying to erase the tears. "I hate this! I hate this. I'm fucking crying about this? It's so stupid."

"It's not stupid," Brittany said.

"Why do they hate me?"

"They love you, sweetie." Mrs. P rubbed my back. I scoffed. "They do," she said. "They brought you here for Christmas."

"So they wouldn't have to deal with me alone."

"No," she said. "Because they know how happy being with Brittany makes you. And they wanted to see you that happy on Christmas."

"Is that what they told you? That's a load of bullshit."

I knew she wanted to scold me for language, especially when Annabelle was standing in the doorway to the kitchen eyeing me suspiciously and wondering where the hell the real Santana was, but she stroked my hair instead. "They were hesitant when you first asked them to come over here, weren't they? Because they'd had plans to take you skating this afternoon, just the three of you, go out for dinner—they wanted to spend the day with you."

I tensed.

"But they told me she's the one thing that makes you tolerable, and how happy they are that you're friends. And they wanted you to have a good day, even if it meant spending it with all of us instead of them."

"They said that to you?"

She nodded.

"That was rude of them," I said quietly.

Mrs. P smiled. "They're nothing if not direct."

"They love you, San," Brittany said. "You should know that."

"How am I supposed to know that." I tucked my chin into my chest. "I'm not a mind reader. They don't ever tell me."

She smiled against my head. "At least I know it's genetic," she said.

"I…" I mumbled against her neck, breathing heavily and with purpose to steady myself. I didn't want to hear that I was turning into my parents. That was the very last thing I wanted, ever. Finally, I pulled back and looked into her eyes. I was a mess. I had tears, fresh and dried, and tracking mascara I'm sure, all down my cheeks. My nose was running. I knew my eyes were bloodshot, and my head was pounding because crying always gave me a headache. Brittany was beautiful. Peaceful. Soft, knowing. I breathed in shakily. "I love you," I whispered.

She raised her eyebrows.

"I love you," I said again, but not any louder. I could barely find my voice. I pulled her close because her gaze was making me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable. "I'm sorry—I don't want… I just…"

"I know." She squeezed me tightly and kissed my neck through my hair. "I love you, too."


	8. Chapter 8

"Do you want me to come with you?"

She'd asked, and I'd said no. And now I stood alone on my front porch wishing I'd said the opposite. I stared at the door and shivered, hunching my shoulders as if that would make me warmer.

My phone started vibrating in my pocket, startling me out of my stare-off with the doorknob. "Hi," I answered quietly.

"Hi," Brittany said. "You should go inside."

"Are you watching me?"

"No. I just know you. You're going to get hypoglycemia if you stay outside too long."

I smiled. "Thanks Britt-Britt."

"I can still come over if you want."

I took an unsteady breath. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"You'll be fine, San. Just play Monopoly or – no, you should play Taboo! That would be fun."

I snorted. "I think you're forgetting who my parents are."

"Your mom would like Monopoly, though? That's like pretty much her job."

"Okay. I'm freezing."

"Bye," she said.

"Bye."

And with that, and one more deep breath of sharp air, I took two more steps and opened the front door.

My mother was prodding the logs in the fireplace in her bathrobe. My father, hood thrown up on his Bengals sweatshirt, was suffering through a John Grisham novel while stubbornly refusing the reading glasses on the coffee table. The sound of the door startled them both. I stood awkwardly in the foyer. No one said anything.

After a minute, I kicked off my boots and hung up my jacket in the closet. They watched me grab the quilt off the back of the couch and drop into the armchair closest to the fire. I burrowed as far into the blanket as I could without hiding inside it completely. The fire snapped. My parents were still staring at me.

"What?" I finally said.

"I thought you were staying with the Pierces tonight," my father said, looking back to his book, which I knew he couldn't see.

I shrugged.

"Did you get in a fight with Brittany?" my mother asked.

"No."

So far this was going really, really well.

My mother picked up yesterday's newspaper from underneath the coffee table and started doing the sudoku. I chewed on my lip and pulled out my phone to text Brittany.

_This is the worst idea I've ever had._

A moment later, she'd replied: _Monopoly?_

"Um," I said, and my parents' heads snapped up in unison. I swallowed and rubbed the soft white quilt between my fingers. "Do you want to… play a game, or something? Like, I don't know, Monopoly?"

"Monopoly." My father said incredulously.

"Yeah, or, I don't know. Whatever. I don't care."

"That game lasts too long, I have no patience for that," my mother said.

"Or Taboo?"

My father frowned. "That doesn't sound appropriate."

I would have laughed if he didn't look so deadly serious. "No, it's not – never mind."

We lapsed back into silence and I pulled out my phone again. _Worst. Idea. Ever._

Almost instantly, Brittany replied: _Who doesn't like Monopoly?_

_What are you doing right now?_ I typed.

_Hiding the glitter from Lord Tubbington – he keeps trying to eat it and I'm pretty sure it's not part of Atkins._

I glanced up at my parents, each engrossed in their own stupid activities. Defiantly, I typed: _Let's do something a little more fun._

_Okay._

_What are you wearing?_

_Santana. You're supposed to be bonding with your parents._

I rolled my eyes. _I told you, B, they don't want to bond with me._

"Santana, put your phone away."

"What? Why?"

"You know the rules," my mother said. "No phones during family time."

"Whatever," I said, sliding my phone into my pocket. More silence. "I'm going to bed."

They both watched me wordlessly as I dropped the blanket and disappeared upstairs. As soon as I was in my room, I shut the door and called Brittany.

"Hello?" she said, obviously distracted. "_No! – _hang on, Santana – _do not_ put that near the fireplace, you don't know where we're hooked up to and I don't want him ending up in Borgin and Burkes!"

I smiled at the shuffle on the other end of the phone and sat down on my bed. "Tubbs trying to use the Floo powder again?" I asked, picturing the tin of silver glitter I'd given her a year ago, labeled "Floo Powder," along with a letter to Hogwarts, a stuffed owl, a Hufflepuff scarf, a couple chocolate frogs, and a "personal" written declaration of love from Bill Weasley. So it was a little elaborate… whatever. She'd liked it.

"Annabelle wants to keep it right next to the fireplace and he's watching her put it there."

"That's no good," I said.

"Aren't you supposed to be having family time?"

I swallowed hard. "Can you come over?"

"Of course," she said, instantly soft. "Door or window?"

"Door. I don't want you to get hurt climbing up."

"Are you sure?"

"Text me when you're here, I'll come down and get you."

"Sure," she said.

Fifteen minutes later, I met her at the front door. My parents watched us wordlessly as we walked, pinkies linked, though the living room to get to the stairs.

"Hi Mr. and Mrs. L," Brittany smiled cheerfully.

My mother raised her eyebrows.

My father grunted and looked down at his book.

I pulled her harder.

In my room, all she said, with eyebrows high on her forehead, was, "Wow."

"See? My family? We don't do 'bonding.' Or 'family time.' We don't know how to play games. We don't even know how to interact like normal people. This is a complete disaster."

"Want me to help?"

"We're so far beyond help. At this point I just want to go to sleep and pretend this train wreck never happened. And maybe not wake up for, like, a week."

"You can't just give up."

"Yes I can."

"Do you have Apples to Apples? You can't really lose that one and it's really hard to get angry when you're playing. Unless it's you and me playing with my family, because my dad thinks we cheat."

"Can we just go to bed? I promise I'll make it worth your time…"

"San, come on. How are you supposed to talk to them about important stuff if you can't talk to them about anything at all?"

I stared at her hard. She smiled brightly and skipped to my closet, searching around the top shelves for a minute before pulling out the red and green game box. I rolled my eyes.

"They're going to say no," I said.

"No they won't. I'm very persuasive with Lopezes."

"This is a terrible, terrible idea."

Possibly my new worst idea ever, I thought as I followed her bouncing blonde ponytail down the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

"So it's super easy and it's so much fun," Brittany said, tossing the lid of the Apples to Apples box underneath the coffee table and dealing the cards into four piles. "It's more fun when there's more people or if you've been drinking, but we were all just drinking at my house so I guess that kind of counts."

I maintained firm eye contact with my cards.

"I'll watch you play," my father said, flipping the page of his thriller.

"We can't play with three people," Brittany said. "That would be really boring."

"Start without me," he said.

Britt's forehead wrinkled adorably. "We'd still be playing with three people though. If you don't want to play, just say so."

I bit my lip and chanced a look at my father. He took off his glasses slowly. I pressed my knee against Brittany's leg.

"I didn't say that."

"Great. Here are your cards."

"I think we were just looking forward to a quiet evening," my mother said.

"That's why we're not playing Taboo," Brittany said.

"Taboo has a loud buzzer," I explained off my parents' confused looks.

"I think you'll really like this game," Britt said. "Let's just play a round. If you hate it we can stop. It's not like you're signing up to play for the rest of your life."

My mother sighed. "Why don't you girls just head upstairs. We can do this another time."

"Fine." I stood and pulled Brittany to her feet. She squeezed my hand.

"You didn't give me much time to be magic," she murmured.

"I told you it's not going to work."

"What's not going to work?" My mother asked.

"Nothing," I said. I tugged Brittany's arm, but she pulled me back. "Britt," I said warningly. "Come on."

"Just one round," she said to my parents. "Please?"

"What's not going to work, Santanita?"

"I said nothing."

"She just wants to play Apples to Apples with you," Brittany said.

"She's kidding, yes?" My mother turned to my father first, who was still expressionless, and then to me. "Apples to Apples."

"Yeah. She's kidding," I said.

Brittany frowned. "I thought you wanted a game night."

"You wanted a game night," I said.

My mother threw up her hands. "I'm confused."

"But after—"

"Britt…"

"I just thought—"

"Brittany."

She bit her lip looked down at me with sad blue eyes. "I thought this would make you feel better."

"What's wrong, are you sick?"

"No, I'm fine, Mom."

"I told you to make sure you drink Emergen-C every day. I told her, didn't I?"

My father shrugged. "She doesn't look sick."

"I'm not sick!"

'Oh God – are you pregnant?"

"What?"

"It was that Puckerman boy, wasn't it!"

"Mom, my God, no!"

"I'm going to—"

"Honey, calm down," my father said.

"I'm not pregnant! Jesus Christ."

"Don't you say that in my house, Santana," my mother snapped. "Don't you say Jesus's name like that. I knew that boy was a terrible influence, I never should have allowed him in this house—"

"Mom!" I shouted. "Stop! I'm not – ugh…" Brittany drew comforting circles on my hand with her thumb. "I'm not sick, I'm not pregnant, I'm not hanging out with Puck anymore—"

My mother scoffed.

"I just… Britt wanted to do a game night. That's all."

Mom's eyes narrowed. I chanced a glance at my father, who was staring at our joined hands. I tensed slightly and started to pull away on instinct, but Brittany squeezed my hand gently and I forced myself not to move.

"That's all?" he said.

I nodded.

He sighed. The fire popped. My mom glanced between him and me and Brittany, who seemed acutely aware of the situation – so much so that the comforting circles she'd been drawing with her thumb earlier had become something of a hyperactive merry-go-round on my hand.

"That's it," he said.

"Mhm," I said.

"Game night."

This time Brittany nodded.

"Did you get us mixed up with your parents again?" he said.

She grinned as he smiled (just a little), and her grip on my hand relaxed. I realized all the muscles in my body had contracted, ready to act on a flight instinct I hadn't even known had been present, and forced myself to come down. I smiled shakily.

"I only did that once," she said. "That was forever ago."

"I kind of liked it," my mother said. "Santana never called me 'Mommy,' even when she was little."

My father picked up his pile of red cards. "I can't see a thing," he said, craning his neck back and holding them far out in front of him. Brittany handed him his glasses and picked up her own cards. He grunted. "Okay. So… Loch Ness Monster? What the hell is this game, where are the numbers?"

"You're not supposed to say them out loud," Britt said.

"What? You didn't tell me that. I want new cards."

"Dad, it's not poker."

"What is this? I don't know what this means," my mother eyed her cards distastefully. "What is a poke man."

I raised my eyebrows. "A what?

"It's Pokemon, Mrs. L."

"What is that."

Brittany dropped a green card in the middle of the table. "Okay. Everybody stop saying what their cards are. I'll go first. So the word's Hot & Bothered – now you put down a card that you think I'll pick for that definition. Upside down," she said, eyeing my father, "so I don't know whose is whose. Whoever I pick gets a point."

I grinned and instantly dropped mine on the table. My mother and father, looking slightly uncomfortable, took a few more minutes before putting down theirs. When Brittany flipped them over, she smirked. "Tattoo Parlors," she chose, glancing at me knowingly.

I grinned and pulled the green card toward me.

"What? Cheating," my mother said.

"Your turn!" Brittany said brightly, handing the green cards to me.

"Okay…" I put the "Rough" card on the table.

I watched Brittany press her lips together to keep from smiling. She examined her options before placing her card face-down next to mine. When my parents had done the same, I flipped them over.

"Sandpaper, Baking Cookies, and… The 21st Century? Seriously?"

"Your teenage years have been very rough," my father grumbled. "I would see where that person is coming from."

"Thanks. I'm gonna go with Baking Cookies," I said, my mind flashing to an impossible-to-explain-to-Brittany recipe followed by a spatula and a cold metal spoon.

"Yes!" Brittany fist pumped and grabbed the card. She absently traced shapes on my leg while examining her red cards.

"What! How are cookies rougher than sandpaper?" My mother said. "That makes no sense. You two are cheating!"

Brittany grinned at me, and I realized the shapes she was drawing on my skin were hearts. My stomach flipped and I couldn't keep from smiling back at her.


	10. Chapter 10

"Next time you two can't sit next to each other," my mother said, throwing her three green cards down in disgust. After nearly ten rounds, Britt and I had each accumulated over a dozen cards, making my parents' small piles look a little sad in comparison.

"I don't think it would make a difference. I swear they have some kind of mind connection. Even if you had them in separate rooms they'd still be able to do that." He tossed his glasses on the table and rubbed his eyes. "I'm exhausted."

"It's only nine o'clock," I said.

"Already?" He groaned. "No wonder. I'm going to bed."

I picked at the corner of my _Magical_ card as he kissed my mother goodnight and headed for the hallway.

"Goodnight, Mr. L.," Brittany said.

He paused and pursed his lips. "This was…. Good night."

When he disappeared, my mother started straightening the quilt on the back of the couch and picking up the pillows off the floor. "I'm going to bed too," she said. "Did you girls want hot chocolate?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"If you do you'll have to run to the store, your father and I finished it the other day."

Oh. "It's Christmas, Mom."

"You don't drink hot chocolate on Christmas?"

"I do," Brittany said.

"No," I said, "I just mean all the stores will be closed. Because it's a holiday. So we can't… never mind."

"Don't be rude, Santanita, I was just letting you know."

"Sorry," I replied sullenly. Automatically.

"This was…" She looked over the cards spread across the table and floor and nodded. "Thank you, Brittany."

"It's Santana's game," Britt said.

My mother smiled. "Goodnight, mija," she said.

Heat rushed to my face and I stared at the fire as she left the room.

"What's wrong?" Brittany asked softly.

The fire snapped and the logs settled slightly; a waft of sparks drifted up the chimney. After a few quiet moments, I glanced at Britt.

"Thank you," I whispered.

She kissed my forehead. "Of course."

"She hasn't called me that since sixth grade."

Brittany climbed onto the couch behind me and started braiding my hair. I closed my eyes as a shiver overcame me at the sensation of her fingers dragging across my scalp. I sighed. "Can you do that forever."

"Ask me to marry you and I will."

"Brittany."

"What? It's Christmas, I'm allowed to say that."

"You can't just use Christmas as an excuse for everything."

"Why not? It's worked so far."

I grinned. "You're ridiculous."

"I was super calm tonight, I hardly had any sugar before I came over."

"Ridiculous, baby. Not rambunctious."

She tied my braid and tucked a loose strand behind my ear. "There."

I whined and tipped my head back against her legs. "Don't stop." I ran my fingers through my hair, pulling a few pieces out. "Look, it's all messed up. You have to do it again."

She laughed and swatted my hand away. "Stop it."

"You have to," I said. "It's Christmas."

She gently pulled the braid out and stroked my hair as I stared at the dying fire. The wind gusted against the glass door that led to the back yard, forcing the snowdrifts from the deck and the three-months-retired hot tub up against the side of the house. I shivered again.

Climbing onto the couch next to her, I pulled the quilt over us and curled into her chest, resting my head over her heart. She straightened the edges of the blanket while I wrapped my arm around her waist. "I'm really glad you're here," I murmured.

She smiled against the top of my head.

I'd just begun to doze when suddenly she started and shook me. "Santana!" There was a hint of panic in her voice, and instantly my whole body ran cold and I leapt off the couch, getting tangled in the blanket and landing on my ass on the wood floor. I scrambled to my feet, frantically looking for my parents so I could explain away our intimate proximity, but there was nobody in the room but us.

"What? Jesus, Britt, you scared the shit out of me."

"Christmas is almost over!"

"Yeah…? It'll be back again next year."

"No, I mean today is almost over."

I frowned, trying to catch up with Brittany's brain.

"Santana Claus?" she said, as if it were the most obvious, why-didn't-you-think-of-it thing in the world.

Slowly, I grinned as I eyed her up and down. "I don't know," I husked, biting my lip. "You've been awfully nice. You only get a visit from Santana Claus when you've been very," I straddled her hips, "_very_," I placed my hands on either side of her head, "_naughty_," I leaned close enough so that my breath tickled her face. She whimpered and tried to capture my lips, but I pulled back with a teasing grin. "Meet me upstairs in ten minutes," I whispered in her ear, rolling off the couch when she tried to kiss me again.

And of course, she immediately followed me.

"Britt Britt, I said ten minutes," I whispered on the stairs, trying not to wake my parents.

She shook her head. "Go faster."

I giggled and pulled her toward my door, pausing for a moment. Even in the weird side-lighting from the nightlight in the hallway, she'd never looked more beautiful. Breaking my act for a minute, I cupped her cheek and kissed her softly. "You know I love you, right?" I said. "Like, really _love… _love you."

"I like really _love_ love you too," she said. "Now hurry up because I think I'm going to get lucky with Santana Claus."

With a soft laugh we tumbled into my bedroom. The wind still battered the house, but with the Santa hat askew on my head I could barely hear anything aside from her whimpers and muffled moans and _I like really love love you too._


End file.
